


Sigh No More

by ameliathermopolis



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8654032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliathermopolis/pseuds/ameliathermopolis
Summary: Written for the Critical Role Reverse Bang, with the lovely art of nonbinarypike on tumblr. Takes place the day after the bar scene in episode 69.
***A flash of cold brings him back to the workshop, his gasp sounding like a thunderclap in the silence. Iron, cold and solid, presses against his palm, his hand gripping it so tight he can see the white of his knuckles. Such a small thing, but capable of so large an impact. Percy runs a finger over one of the wings and a memory teases at remembrance, a vision of a woman clad in white and blue, a hand reaching out to him across a plane of light. "No. Stay. It is not yet your time." No matter how hard he puts his mind to the task, Percy can’t remember her face, and he wonders if that is why another goddess of his acquaintance wears a mask over her own.





	

The workshop has always been the one place in Whitestone Percy can call his. His great-uncle Alexander had been the last de Rolo to use it before him, a blacksmithing second son himself, though he was known for swords instead of bullets and trinkets. His anvil and hammers and the great wooden workbench, pockmarked with years of wear and burns, is covered only in dust, the ash from the forge’s oven long grown cold.

Disuse is a horrible thing to witness, especially when it happens to a place once so familiar.

The wall of stone at his back feels familiar; Percy knows which bricks will poke and prod if he presses his back to them. He knows just how to perch in the corner so as not to disturb the instruments of creation and manipulation hanging from the walls and ceiling, the lamps that ran dry of oil years ago, and the cobwebs so artfully placed within each crack and nook. He thinks about lighting one of the lamps, that perhaps the warm amber glow will be enough to stave off the darkness. He also knows it would not matter. He could still make his way through this room with his eyes closed.

Percy knows he should be in bed, that at any given moment Cassandra, or, heaven forbid, one of the twins will find him and drag him back to his room. It does not change the fact that he is tired of rest. Even when his body stagnates, Percy finds his mind is ever turning. Perhaps that is the reason he keeps seeing swirls in the corner of his vision, a product of a memory that is not even a true recollection.

He remembers darkness, but not the kind produced by underground rooms and sackcloth curtains over glass. True, hollowing darkness, in a world that could never dream of the sun’s touch. He remembers feeling his own mask over his face, the sweet dried flowers and herbs turned to ash and maggots and rot that fills his lungs, seeking to suffocate. He remembers the ropes tied around his wrists and ankles, binding him, trussed like a goose on a platter.

Orthax had no teeth made of bone, but Percy could feel him eating away at him just the same.

A flash of cold brings him back to the workshop, his gasp sounding like a thunderclap in the silence. Iron, cold and solid, presses against his palm, his hand gripping it so tight he can see the white of his knuckles. Such a small thing, but capable of so large an impact. Percy runs a finger over one of the wings and a memory teases at remembrance, a vision of a woman clad in white and blue, a hand reaching out to him across a plane of light. _No. Stay. It is not yet your time._ No matter how hard he puts his mind to the task, Percy can’t remember her face, and he wonders if that is why another goddess of his acquaintance wears a mask over her own.  

Pike’s necklace feels heavy and cold in his hands. He presses a finger to one of the hard metal spikes meant to keep the central jewel in place deep enough to draw blood. The center meant to house a jewel is shattered, blown apart from use, another broken thing in this broken house of his.

* * *

 

Pike hadn’t let him give it back to her. He had found her that morning, on her knees in the garden, wrestling with gnarled and broken roots as thick as her waist. The distillery had vented out there, to his mother’s garden, poison clouds so thick that no life could hope to bloom. And yet, one little gnome’s determination seems to be enough to make it want to. Percy does know how long he had stood there, watching her work, the divine healing magic dancing around her fingers as she coaxed dark, petrified roots back to life. It is a quiet, private moment. One he will keep to himself for now.

“How are you?” she said, blue eyes wide and earnest. Percy had knelt so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck to look up. Even the memory of it makes him want to laugh at the disgruntled look on her face. Unlike Scanlan, who can and will drag everyone within reach down to his level, Pike hates when people bend down for her. She calls it stooping. Percy calls it courtesy.

“Well enough,” he replied.

“Well enough is not _good_ ,” Pike chided. “And I will not be satisfied until you are good, again.”

“I’m touched that you assume I was ever good before, Pike,” he said, and she swatted him on his shoulder with her gloves. Her gaze, as ever, was enough to wither even the strongest will.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, Percy. Not even as a joke.” Pike’s gift for healing has always been a marvelous thing to watch. It is as much a product of practice as it is magic. Her deity may be able to guide or buff a spell, but she cannot guide Pike’s hands. All of Vox Machina has at one point or another been in a similar position as he was that morning, on his knees in front of their little golden angel, her fingers prodding gently, her tongue held between her teeth as she looks for wounds both of flesh and soul.

Percy can still feel the warmth of Pike’s divine restoration, a welcome comfort, if not one technically needed since Keyleth freed his soul from a demon’s grasp. Where Scanlan’s magic glows purple with inspiration from the arcane, and Keyleth’s magic is as green as the forests she loves, Pike’s magic has always been the purest, truest gold.

Percy smiles at the memory of her glowing, eyes closed in concentration, hands pressed to either side of his face. He knows how much she hates when all act as though she is infallible, but it is hard not to when he sees how easily she takes to goodness. It is a thing he admires and envies in equal measure.

“It appears I am not the only tinkerer in residence anymore,” he teased when she was done. “You have a talent for fixing me, Pike, though I fear I’ll make you tire of it before long.” She hit his shoulder with a fist instead of gloves that time.

“Hush, you. You’re a person, not one of your machines.” That earned a laugh, at least, even if it sounded a little too hollow to his hearing.

A question leapt to his tongue without his conscious permission.

“Could you feel it?” Percy asked. “When it broke?” Pike’s gaze flashed to his and, after a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

“I think so. I felt something, like an ache in my chest, and I knew something was wrong. I knew it had to do with you, but…gods, I hope I never feel like that again,” she muttered. “I _knew_ something had happened, that you needed me, and I couldn’t _do_ anything.” She stared at her feet. “I tried to scry on you, and I couldn’t _find_ you and...Whitestone feels like it’s becoming our home, Percy, but that night it just felt like a prison.”

The silence between them was not as pressing as it perhaps would have been with any of the others. When she finally met his eye again, it was like she had pushed back a curtain, taken off a mask she wore for all of their sakes. For the first time in Percy’s memory of her, Pike looked so small, and he realized that she is not a sword, not a golden bullet. She has always been a shield, above all. Her shoulders curled forward and her fingers knitted together before she bowed her head and her eyes were lost to him.

“I just wanted to keep you safe. That’s all I ever try to do, with all of you and I...I couldn’t. I failed-”

“You failed no one.” His voice was loud enough to make Pike jump. “You gave me back my life twice over in the span of a day. Don’t you dare even think you have failed me, Pike, because it isn’t true and it never will be.”

Percy reached down and pulled the necklace out of his coat. The iron chain was long enough that he could just slip it over his head. “It’s yours, broken or not,” he said, pushing it into Pike’s hands. To his great surprise, she had laughed, even with tears starting in the corners of her eyes, high and sweet like before the dragons came down on them.

“No,” she said. Her hands folded over his, closing his fingers around the pendant. “It was a gift. Keep it.”

“It isn’t mine to take, Pike. What would you even have me do with it?” he asked. Pike eyes softened a little at that. She had leaned up on her toes and placed the iron chain around his neck, tucking the broken pendant into the folds of his ascot and shirt.  

“Then it is mine to give to whom I will. And I give it to you.” Her hands rested on his chest for a moment, her eyes still on the necklace, and he lifted his own to hold them. She had smiled at that, if only just a little. “I can only suggest that you do what we all must these days,” Pike sighed. She gave his hands a squeeze before letting them go. “Mend.”

* * *

 

_Mend_.

As he looks around a room designed for such purpose, Percy is not sure he even remembers how to do that. Perhaps his hands take to work with metal and wood and flame, but he is not like Pike. He does not have such a deft hand with hearts and minds and souls, and the laws of life are not his to command. No matter how much death he deals with smoke and steel, he has no control over giving back the life he takes.

There is a freedom in loss of control, in the knowledge that he will never have to bear a weight Percy knows would break him. Death is easy. All things must die, even gods, but not everyone lives. Living is harder, he thinks. It is pain and suffering and loss, coupled with the knowledge that perhaps there is enough love in the world to make up for it. Death is an inevitability, something that is done to you. Life is a choice. It is choosing to run even when there are crossbow bolts whizzing past your head. It is choosing to walk path of smoke and fire, even if you know it may consume you. It is choosing to pull a trigger even when staring down the barrel of a gun.

But sometimes...sometimes, life is a gift.

_I will die first, of all of us_ . It is a cold thought, hard and unyielding the way real truths tend to be. Out of all of the members of Vox Machina, he is the only human, and he will be lucky to see the turn of anything more than seventy years. He has known so many who did not get half as much. _But I will not die today._

Metal, he can work with. Souls, he will leave to gentler hands.

The necklace lands with a satisfying heaviness on the wood of the workbench as Percy lifts himself up to walk across the room. The midday sun barely penetrates the soot-covered windows, half buried in the earth as he is, but after a moment spent with flint, steel, and kindling, a warm orange light starts to fill the room.

_The opposite of war is not peace, Percival,_ Professor Anders’ voice rings in his mind. _It is creation._ Percy does his best not to dwell on how it is the only true thing the man ever said to him.

His gloves, apron, and spectacles lay right where he left them, useable if covered in a thick layer of dust and rust that can tended to later.

The necklace emerges red hot from the oven, warm enough to mold and yet still maintain it’s shape. Percy falls into a familiar dance with tongs and hammer and thick leather gloves. This, at least, he knows he will not fail at. Each prong is straightened, shaped back into its proper place and the points sharpened enough to cut with the slightest touch. A sapphire, gilded on the back and edges with gold that he pilfered from the family jewels, is delicately placed in the center before Percy hammers and folds the prongs back inwards to hold it tight. It is not magical, not divine, but it is something.

From there on, repairs are simple. The wings of Sarenrae, tucked in around the main heart shaped center, are cleaned with a good scrub and some alcohol once the rest of the necklace cools, and polished until they shine. Percy replaces the iron chain with a silver one, relishing in the delicate work of detaching and reattaching the clasp. Though he cannot deny that he adores his weapons, his feats of creativity and a little bit of madness, there is no small comfort in fixing things. He sees it in Keyleth and Pike and even Scanlan’s eyes when they use their magic to heal. There is a special, unique joy in making things whole that had once been broken.

One day, he thinks, he will find a way of turning that effort inwards.

* * *

 

To Percy’s delight, they all agree to take supper together like civilized people. Though many members of their band may be nursing hangovers from their escapade the evening before, the bustle of dressing and preparing, as well as the promise of a chicken-free hot meal, seems to lift the whole castle’s spirits. Even in war with an endgame as long as the one they fight, it is no bad thing to celebrate a victory.

Percy switches his coat and work clothes for a suit of black and red velvet, a boon given how few torches and braziers they have lit in the castle. Cassandra and he assume that a bit of light wouldn’t bother Allura and Shaun’s shield, but neither wish to tempt it. When he makes his way downstairs, the finished necklace clutched tight in his breast pocket, he spots two women heading into the dining hall a little ways ahead of him, one tall with red hair falling to her back, the other short with her blond hair half up in a knot, the rest tumbling around her shoulders in waves.

“Pike!” he calls down the hall. They both turn to look at him and wave, before Keyleth walks on. Pike turns to wait for him, hands folded in front of her.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asks when he catches up with her. Percy wonders what it says about him that she is starting to open any and all conversation with that question.

“Never been better, I swear it,” he says. “I have something for you.” Pike raises an eyebrow in suspicion. Percy can almost see the onslaught of protest on her face before she even opens her mouth. For a person who dishes out gifts as often as Pike does, one would think she’d get better at accepting them. “I didn’t spent a single copper piece on it, before you ask.” Percy smirks at the soft growl she gives when he kneels down. “Turn around and close your eyes for me.” Pike gives him a wary look, but obeys, pivoting in place until her back to him. “Are they closed? You promise?”

“I promise,” she sighs, though Percy can hear the smile in her voice. He pushes her hair over her shoulder and lifts the necklace over her head, lowering it until he can fasten the clasp at the base of her neck. He feels her flinch at the weight and puts his hands on her shoulders. “There. You can open your eyes now.”

The long, deep silence that follows makes gooseflesh creep up Percy’s arms, and he wonders if he has done exactly the wrong thing.

“You cannot give me this,” Pike whispers at last, and Percy spins her around when he hears the tears in her voice. She doesn’t resist him, but neither does she look up. The sapphire pendent, brilliant and gleaming in the firelight, rests perfectly in her palms. “It’s too much. It’s...it’s too beautiful.”

“Then it will have a good home with a gnome who is equal to its quality.” Pike shakes her head and looks up at him, blue eyes wide and watery. A blush has started at her neck and moves swiftly up to her cheeks.

“I gave to _you_. It’s yours,” she insists, and Percy catches her hands when she drops the pendant and moves to reach for the clasp.

“Then it is _mine_ , to give to who _I_ will, Pike,” he says, giving her hands a squeeze. “I fixed it, just like you told me to. It’s has no magic, no life, but it isn’t broken any longer.  And I choose to give it to you, if you’ll accept it.” Percy licks his lips and has to force himself to keep looking into her eyes, to not shrink back into himself. “You give me so much, Pike. Please, just let me give you something in return, for once.”

Pike opens her mouth and Percy can see a thousand excuses, reasons, and bargains cross her mind before she closes it again and pulls her hands out of his grasp. Percy almost stumbles when her arms go around his neck with enough force to knock him over, gripping tight enough to make him gasp. Her hair smells like sunshine and honeysuckle and the good rich earth she had been tending to, and he hugs her back just as tight.

“Thank you,” she whispers in his ear. “Thank you, Percival. I’ll treasure it.” She squeezes his shoulders hard before releasing him, one hand wiping away a tear he is sure he was not supposed to see. For his part, Percy only smiles, more truly and warmly than he has in a long while.

He stands and they walk into the dining room, side-by-side, greeted by the shouts of a band of lovable ruffians turned heroes, and Percy feels for the first time in far too long a time that his mind and his body are moving in one direction. To where and to what end, he does not know. But as he sees the smiling, laughing faces of his friends, gathered at one table and allowed a brief moment of respite against a world trying to break them over its knee, he takes what comfort he can in knowing that his course is pointed forward.  



End file.
